


We Share a Crown

by ahloralordine



Series: We Share a Crown [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Pack Mother Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Slash, Stiles is Part of the Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahloralordine/pseuds/ahloralordine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So he’s in? It’s all settled? Woo-hoo. He’ll be here for pack meetings.” They only know about those through Isaac, who has been trying to convince Scott to join Derek’s pack with his sad, SPCA commercial worthy puppy faces every time they see him in the locker room, their chemistry class, and the cafeteria.</p><p>Derek tilts his head to the side. “Yeah. He’s in.”</p><p>“Cool.” Stiles lightly pushes Scott’s shoulder. He still looks like he drank pure lemon juice laced with wolfsbane. Oh, well. The love would come in good time. Hopefully. “And we’re off. Bye, Derek.”</p><p>“And you’re in too,” Derek says as soon as they turn their backs to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Share a Crown

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Teen Wolf. Never will. 
> 
> Gratuitous amounts of swearing, sarcasm, and sentence fragments. Be warned.  
> ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

I.

 

After Isaac lets them in, Stiles and Scott find Derek sitting in the tiny kitchenette of his new apartment. Stiles is impressed; the place is a little cramped and bare but it’s such an improvement from the condemned, rat-infested train car that was Derek’s previous dwelling. Isaac disappears into one of the bedrooms connected to the living room they passed through to get to the kitchenette.

Derek scowls at them like he’s ready to spit in their faces. Well, maybe mostly Scott’s face because Stiles hasn’t done anything wrong recently. He has saved Derek a few times since falsely accusing the man of murdering his sister so they’ve reached something close to even-stevens.

Stiles places a hand on Scott’s back as both reassurance and a reminder to man-the-fuck-up and apologize. If this were any other day in his life, Stiles would have been on Scott’s side. But the painful look of betrayal on Derek’s face that night when Scott used him— _used_ him like so many other people have—had been heart wrenching and wrong. Because Derek lost someone else to trust and that was such a short list already.

And although Stiles thinks Derek is a douche every other day of the week, Stiles is a bleeding heart _every day_ of the week and everything about Derek just gets under his skin. Nobody deserves Derek Hale’s life. That’s a loneliness that makes Stiles willing to forgive a lot of things he usually wouldn’t.

Scott shoots him a quick, anxious look before turning back to Derek. Stiles is a bit proud; Scott’s not even glaring at him for once.

“I,” Scott manages before he glances up at the plain white ceiling. Stiles pats his back. Eye contact, man. Eye contact goes a long way. “I’m sorry. For using you the way I did. I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t trust you.”

Stiles wants to smack the flat of his palm over his eyes. He hopes this doesn’t degenerate into another argument. By the unforgiving look on Derek’s face, it might.

“Or. I didn’t trust you. No, I don’t know if I do even now. I don’t know a lot of things.” Scott’s voice sounds almost pleading by its openness.

Stiles is careful to make his sigh of relief quiet. This is good. This is honest. Scott is absolutely disarming and impossible to begrudge when he’s honest. He watches Derek’s face because, come on, dude, can’t you see Scott’s just lost and confused, terrified and winging it?

Apparently, Derek does. His expression relaxes but he still doesn’t say anything. He’s waiting for more. Scott must get that vibe too because he glances at Stiles again. It’s a look Stiles knows well, a look that appears when a teacher asks Scott a question and waits for a longer, more in depth answer. It’s this “Oh God, I’ve run out of things to say” face.

“I don’t know you,” Scott says a little desperately. Stiles knows that’s the least of his worries though. “And Erica, Isaac, Boyd, and Jackson had their lives changed because they asked but I _didn’t_. _I didn’t_. Your uncle took away my fucking choice. You say it’s a gift but I’ve almost killed my best friend at least twice, I’ve almost gotten killed at least three times, and for a little while I’m pretty sure my mom hated me.” Scott swallows. Stiles thinks Derek flinches. “And Allison. So you don’t get me either. And you told me that I could be cured. Even if you said it was a slim chance and just a legend but you put that hope into my head knowing what I’d do. What I’d do for you. And it was a lie so don’t—” Scott takes a deep shuddering breath. “So don’t act like you haven’t used and betrayed me either.”

This is a vulnerable moment between Derek and Scott and intruding on it would shift the balance in some undefinable way. Things will go smoother if Stiles is just a passive presence. Still, he tries to gauge Derek’s posture and expression out of the corner of his eye because he really doesn’t want this to turn into a “he said, she said, nuh-uh, yeah-huh” type of debate.

Stiles isn’t Sherlock Holmes and can’t pick up specific emotions and motives in the tremor of Derek’s hands or whatever, but he knows, somehow, that there’s guilt and understanding there. After all, Derek’s nothing but an ever-growing landfill of guilt. Stiles _can_ interpret the slight scowl that returns to his face. It’s the tell-tale mark of Derek’s stubbornness.

Derek was in an impossible situation then too. He did what he had to, Stiles can imagine him saying. And that’s the most infuriating thing about both of them; they’re not wrong but it’s still unfair to the collateral damage.

Derek still doesn’t say anything. Just sits there with a bowl of cereal long forgotten and probably soggy and gross.

Now comes the hard part. Stiles prods the tip of his index finger into Scott’s back.

Scott grits his teeth. Stiles can hear the quiet sound of bone grating together.

“But nothing’s going to change is it? This is what I am. Now. And people will keep coming for me. And I have my friends—my allies. But the Argents left so Allison is gone. Lydia and Jackson were never really on my side permanently. I’ve got my mom and Stiles.” Scott looks at him again, grateful, before turning back to Derek. “But we can’t handle being alone.”

Stiles thinks Derek knows where this is going. He doesn’t look surprised.

And now comes the humiliation.

Scott doesn’t say anything else. Stiles pushes his fingers harder against Scott’s shoulder blade. Come on, get it over with.

“I.” Scott pauses. “Need you.”

Derek looks unimpressed. Oh God, will the fucker say something? It’s killing Stiles to be silent this long so Derek could at least contribute to this very important declaration of _helplessness_. Stiles just hopes Derek doesn’t open with “why should I believe you?” because he knows that’ll make Scott blow up and end the peace talks. And then hello to never ending, unproductive hostilities.

“Your idea?” Derek asks.

Stiles blinks. Is he talking to him?

“Are you talking to me?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “ _Obviously_.”

“Mutual decision,” Stiles says. He will not, in any way, be snarky or sarcastic. He won’t. Even if everything in his nature is dying to say “it speaks!”

“Right,” Derek says.

That’s all he has to say? ‘Right?’ Stiles waits but Derek doesn’t say anything else.

“You know, I can buy you a dictionary. They’re full of these little things called words. You could be daring and learn to use three in a row. I think a full sentence might kill someone, so don’t go overboard with it or anything.”

Sometimes his lack of impulse control is like watching a collision between a Smart Car and a moose in slow motion. Mildly comical and horrifying with an unpredictable outcome.

Derek _looks_ at him. “I bet you’ve read one cover to cover. Twice.”

“A full sentence. Well, strike me dead.”

“I just tried.”

Shit, fuck, damn. He’s ruining this. Sorry Scott.

“Was that three words? Now you’re just showing off.” Oh, but it was so _easy_.

Scott is looking at him with a tight expression. Stiles can’t tell if he’s pissed that the moment is ruined or if he’s trying really hard not to laugh. Or both. Okay, okay. Stiles had to reign himself in.

“Sorry. It’s a sickness.”

“I don’t disagree.”

Stiles is slightly offended because he was partially serious. ADHD and all. “Can we go back to the thing before? You know, the important thing?” He waves a hand like he’s Vanna White and Scott’s a letter.

“Like I said, was it your idea?”

Stiles bites back his initial response. There’s something loaded about that question.

He settles on honesty. And that really shouldn’t be as hard as it is or feel so disorienting. “I guess it was. I’m pretty good at looking at the big picture. And you’ve always said yourself that werewolves are stronger and safer in a pack.”

Again, Derek looks unimpressed. “So this is a power thing.”

Stiles doesn’t know why Derek says that because that’s not what he meant and Derek knows it. This is some weird initiation test. Stiles tries to not let that grate on his nerves.

“Not even close. You know, I don’t even know what ‘pack’ means? Like, I understand the word ‘pack’ but I don’t get the implications or how it works. I don’t know anything, and when I don’t know anything, I can’t fill Scott in.

“I can’t tell him why he gets stir crazy after sitting in his house alone for six hours or why he sees weird shapes and lights sometimes. I can’t tell him what his weaknesses are—although wolfsbane is a given—and how to counteract them like you did with that bullet. Or why he gets weirdly touchy-feely when I see him at school in the morning. People are starting to wonder if we’re going out. Like, more than usual.”

Stiles thinks Derek hides a small smile when he scratches the stubble above his lip. Whatever. He continues. “I can’t tell him how to deal with photos other than to avoid them. Or teach him how to control his hearing so he doesn’t get migraines that make him throw up. Or, like, if he gets a girlfriend who’s all like, ‘I’m on the pill’ is that good enough for werewolf—”

“Oh my God, _Stiles,_ ” Scott protests. 

“Well, I think this is important shit to wonder about!”

Derek’s hand is covering his mouth now. His fingers are curled and rest on his upper lip. It’s supposed to look nonchalant or patient but Stiles is pretty sure he’s laughing at them. Stiles won’t point it out because he knows Derek is still seriously pissed at Scott for what he did and mildly pissed at him because he has a mouth that doesn’t close. Best not poke the bear. Or werewolf. Whichever.

“And you know,” Stiles says, even though he has talked enough and Derek probably gets the picture, but he’s not really done. Not by a long shot. “It’s not my job to train him, is it? And even though I want to try to handle that responsibility, I’m not qualified. And one of these days we’re going to slip up and someone’s going to get hurt. So I pitched my argument to Scott. And yeah. Mutual decision.” Stiles throws his hands in the air. Ta-da, asshole.

When Derek pulls his hand away from his face, he’s not smiling but that’s to be expected. He looks down and stirs the mushy remains of his cereal before pushing it aside.

“Yeah. Okay,” Derek says after an unnecessarily dramatic pause. “But don’t be surprised if I keep you at a distance first. It’s not something an alpha wants to do with a new pack member. If trust can’t be established right away, things don’t usually turn out well. But I can’t trust you completely right now. I need you to get that.”

Scott nods. That doesn’t surprise either of them.

“That being said, you have to trust me with everything. You come when I call. You don’t ever question my authority. I need complete compliance.”

Scott’s fists clench and his throat bobs. Stiles puts his hand on Scott’s tense shoulder, ready to cut off whatever instinctive rebuttal might escape his control.

“That’s. How can you—?” Scott starts.

Derek beats Stiles to it. “Believe it or not, I’m not saying this to piss you off or shove my authority in your face. My requirement isn’t a personal one. It’s a systematic one. The pack as a whole won’t work if there’s even one link of resistance. It’s too young to handle that right now.”

Derek leans back in his chair and seems to be appraising them. Stiles suddenly realizes that Derek is wearing pajama bottoms. They’re navy blue and plain and _normal_. It’s a weird observation to note after they’ve been here for over ten minutes. It’s so strange, like seeing him out of uniform or something.

Scott looks torn between agreeing and sparking an argument. Stiles understands his hesitation because, seriously, he has no idea what Derek means either but they’re going to have to learn to take his word for it. Or, well, Scott does. Stiles will be the devil’s advocate when he thinks Derek’s ideas really go off the deep end. Like trying to kill Lydia without any proof that she might be a giant homicidal lizard. Yeah, not Derek’s best plan.

It’s really hard not to voice that particular incident. But that would seriously undermine Derek’s integrity and give Scott the excuse he needed to back out. So Stiles doesn’t say anything and Scott eventually concedes with a stiff nod and a muffled, “Okay, yeah, okay.”

“So he’s in? It’s all settled? Woo-hoo. He’ll be here for pack meetings.” They only know about those through Isaac, who has been trying to convince Scott to join Derek’s pack with his sad, SPCA commercial worthy, puppy faces every time they see him in the locker room, their chemistry class, and the cafeteria.

Derek tilts his head to the side. “Yeah. He’s in.”

“Cool.” Stiles lightly pushes Scott’s shoulder. He still looks like he drank pure lemon juice laced with wolfsbane. Oh, well. The love would come in good time. Hopefully. “And we’re off. Bye, Derek.”

“And you’re in too,” Derek says as soon as they turn their backs to him.

Stiles looks at him sharply. “Uh. That’s sweet, but no thanks.”

“Aw,” Derek grins. It’s not a nice grin. It’s very condescending and kind of feral. “It’s almost cute that you think you have a choice.”

“Leave him out of this,” Scott says. Oh, and now he’s growling. This isn’t good.

Derek’s eyes flare alpha-red. He doesn’t get up from the kitchen table, but his shoulders hunch forward like he’s ready to spring across the room. “Not off to a good start, Scott.”

Stiles steps between the two of them, blocking their view of each other. Getting sandwiched between two angry werewolves was not something he wanted to do this morning.

“Why the hell would you want me in your pack? I didn’t know you liked me _that_ much.”

Derek snorts. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. Alphas inherit their betas’ extended pack. It’s almost like an in-law thing. You’re just added baggage.”

Stiles blinks. “You said Scott’s mom was part of his pack. So did you just call Scott’s mom _baggage_?”

Scott’s growling ratchets up a few decibels. Oops.

Derek’s dark scowl is back. “He keeps that up and I’m going to call this off.”

“Scott, quit it,” Stiles says without looking at him. Scott mercifully listens.

“That’s not the only reason.” Derek is looking at Stiles now. The tension hasn’t quite left his shoulders but his eyes are green again. His forearms lay flat on the gray tabletop. “A pack’s emotions run in a sort of feedback loop and the alpha’s feelings are the most influential.” Stiles files that bit of information away for future reference. “I don’t trust him and that means the others won’t trust him. He’s not going to have a support system. “

“Isaac likes Scott,” Stiles says a little petulantly.

“On an individual level maybe. But in a pack setting, he’ll side with me and the others in a heartbeat. Scott will get frustrated and distressed by their distance and they’ll respond to that negativity by going on the defensive.”  

Scott makes a small, irritated noise behind Stiles. He feels a little bad. He and Derek are talking about Scott like he’s not even there.

Derek continues. “Nothing will change from the unstable relationship we have now.” He frowns. “Well, no. That’s not true. Things will probably get worse. Possibly violent.”

Awesome. “Unless I’m there?”

“Unless you’re there,” Derek agrees.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Wait. What’s the catch? Is there a catch? There has to be.”

Derek grins again, arrogant and pleased. “You follow the same rules as Scott. You come when I call and you don’t question my authority. Ever.”

Sneaky son-of-a-bitch. No going behind Derek’s back then. Or at least no going behind Derek’s back without the stealthiest maneuvers ever. Stiles could still manage. It would just be more tedious.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“What!” he laughs. “I’m not thinking anything.”

Derek clearly doesn’t believe him. “We’re done here. You’re free to go,” he says.

Stiles and Scott head back through the living room and see Peter lounging on the dull brown couch underneath the window. It isn’t big enough for him to lie across fully so his feet hang over the armrest. Peter doesn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t listening. Not that it would matter if he did pretend. They would know he was lying anyway. Hell, Isaac probably heard the whole thing and he was in another room. Damn werewolf hearing.

Peter holds up a hand and gives a slow, mocking wave goodbye. “Welcome to the family, boys.”

Scott’s eyes flare gold. His claws and fangs extend. Stiles pushes him towards the door.

“Thanks. We can only hope you don’t learn to love us as much as your niece,” Stiles says before he shuts the door behind them.

They hurry down the stairs and get into Stiles’ jeep where it’s parallel parked by the crosswalk. Scott takes deep, stabilizing breaths to calm his heart rate. It works like a charm. His wolf-y features shift to normal. Stiles starts the car and taps his fingers thoughtfully against the steering wheel.

The immediate anxiety that came with their task shrinks into something quieter, something bubbling beneath the skin. Stiles turns to Scott as Scott turns to him. They breathe.

“Well, that sucked,” Stiles says.

“Worked though.”

“Yeah. A little too well.”

“Yeah.” Scott grimaces. “That’s really unexpected. But at the same time I’m kind of glad.”

Stiles really, really isn’t.

“Not that I want you to be any more involved with this,” Scott amends quickly.

Stiles laughs. “Don’t be stupid. I would’ve followed you with or without Derek’s invitation. I just don’t like the idea of him having control over me.”

Scott huffs. “And I do?”

“Right. Sorry,” Stiles sighs. “Let’s get out of here.”

Scott nods numbly. Stiles turns down the road and wonders out loud, “What the hell does a human do in a werewolf pack anyway?”

 

 

II.

 

Their first pack meeting is on a Friday night. Actually, all pack meetings are on Friday nights, a time tailored to the six teenagers in Derek’s pack. At least he’s considerate enough to try and schedule this crap away from school. (The three weeks they had left, anyway.)

The meeting isn’t at Derek’s apartment. It’s in some abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, conveniently near the Beacon Hills Preserve.

When Stiles and Scott walk in, Derek, Boyd, Erica, Isaac, and Jackson are huddled around a large table with what looks to be a giant map of Beacon Hills laid on top and slightly hanging off the edges. Stiles’ mouth gets the better of him within the first ten seconds of their arrival.

“Did you pick this out at Criminal Lairs for Lease Real-estate? Because it fits right in with the image of a potential drug dealer. Which is what any cop is going to think if they see you at this place and around four teenagers suspected of ‘roid-raging.”

Stiles looks pointedly at Jackson, Boyd, and Isaac. Their werewolf amped stunts in lacrosse haven’t gone as unnoticed as they think. With their werewolf hearing, they should be aware of the chatter from the other teams and their own players, but apparently they aren’t because they continue to draw attention to themselves carelessly. Scott toned it down when Coach Finstock asked for a legally dubious urine sample.   

Derek gives Stiles an irritated look. “Noted.”

Jackson is probably well aware of other people’s suspicions and just doesn’t give a shit. He sneers at Stiles. “Why the fuck does he need to be here again?”

“Because I said so.” Derek cuffs his shoulder. The motion looks horribly indulgent. Stiles doesn’t know what to make of comfortable familiarity between two people who nearly killed each other three or four times in the past. “Now shut up and finish outlining your section of the Preserve.”

Erica apparently finishes first because when she leaves the table, Derek doesn’t comment on it. She saunters over to Stiles and Scott, her stride full of purpose. It makes Stiles wary.

She stops in front of Scott and spits in his face.

“Erica!” Derek growls. He looks livid but doesn’t make a move to punish her. Stiles suspects he’s more lenient with her and Boyd after he found them huddled together in the abandoned train car, bloody and beaten from escaping the alpha pack.

Scott wipes the spit off with the bottom of his sleeve. Her huge brown eyes dare him to complain. He doesn’t. Erica seems satisfied with that and turns her attention to Stiles, giving him a long, evaluating once over. What she gets out of that, Stiles doesn’t know. She moves away from them, brutally bumping her shoulder against Stiles’ as she passes. Boyd follows her without looking at them. They hover by the entrance, waiting for Derek’s permission to leave.

Truthfully, Stiles finds it hard to blame them. Scott’s ex-girlfriend did shoot and stab Erica a few times. She shot Boyd a lot. And then there was the electrocution thing. Yeah—that’s. That’s a thought that isn’t going to go any further.

Well, things are going _swimmingly_.

Scott won’t approach anyone without Stiles clinging to his side so Stiles practically has to push him over to Derek.

“Reporting for duty, _sir_ ,” Stiles says. Oh, he’ll be true to his word and obey every order Derek gives him, but he’ll be damned if he isn’t an insolent little shit every step of the way.

Derek ignores him and hands Scott a marker. “You have the northern part of the preserve with Isaac. Circle the area you think you can cover. Once you’re done, we’ll meet back here and head out again to see if you actually covered as much ground as you think you did.”

“Okay?” Scott doesn’t ask why, but it’s in his tone.

“It’s an exercise in instinctive spatial awareness.” Derek sounds weary. Being a man of a one-word-responses-are-best philosophy, Derek must find repeating himself to be a special kind of Hell. “The bite enhances a lot of senses but human rationality still resists animal instinct. Bitten wolves have to make peace between those two parts of their mind in order to fully access their powers.”

Scott nods and goes to work.

“So what do I do, exactly?” Stiles asks.

Derek looks like he wants to hit him. “You stay here. What, did you think you were going out there with us?”

“Not really. I honestly didn’t know what to think. I figured I’d be here for something as stupid as sitting around. I was hoping I was wrong. I don’t do well with being still, if you haven’t noticed.”

“You’re with Peter,” Derek says, like that means anything.

Stiles makes a disgusted noise. So much no.

“You’re helping him with the bestiary.”

“Uh, I don’t know archaic Latin.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “He’s going to teach you. He’ll explain the rest.” Derek points to a door that leads to another part of the warehouse at the opposite end of the room, where Peter is leaning against the wall like he’d been there the whole time and hadn’t fucking materialized out of nowhere. “ _Go._ ” And that is definitely Derek’s alpha voice.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Bark, bark, woof, woof. Excuse me while I go piss on your carpet.”

He hurries toward Peter before Derek really does hit him. Peter looks amused, the bastard.

Scott looks up and fidgets, torn between finishing with the map and going to Stiles’ side. He really means to talk to Derek about this weird dependency streak Scott has suddenly developed.

Derek waves Boyd and Erica out. They’re going to cover the east and part of the south Preserve, Isaac and Scott to cover the north, and Derek and Jackson to cover the west and remaining south.

And then there were two. Stiles glances at Peter without bothering to hide his contempt.

Peter sighs like he’s the one saddled with the worse end of the deal. “I hope you have a laptop.”

Stiles grunts in the affirmative. He was prepared to get left behind and brought it for entertainment.

“Good. I want to finish translating the bestiary as quickly as possible. I can’t do that if I have to translate and play teacher at the same time so I’ll be leaving off that task for now. Give me your email and I’ll send you the translated chapters that have incomplete information. See what you can find to fill in those gaps. Or form some theories.”

Awesome. While Scott and the others are running around the woods sniffing bark and dirt, he gets extra homework assignments. Once he gives Peter his email, he moves as far away from him as possible without actually leaving the building. He sits under a tube-like vent fixed to the thin strip of brick wall splitting two expansive windows and clears away some dirt and possibly rat turds with his foot. He might bring a broom next time and sing a little song while the woodland creatures are away.

“Now, now,” Peter simpers. “There’s no need to sulk. When Derek bites you, you’ll get to join in the fun.”

Stiles looks up from his login screen. About seventy feet separate him and Peter, but the huge, vacant space of the warehouse allows sound to travel effectively. “Derek’s not going to bite me,” Stiles says unnecessarily. They both know that already.

“I’m sure he would if you asked.”

“Not. Interested.”

“If you say so.”

Stiles really doesn’t understand the point of this mind game. It’s weak and shallow, too infantile to be anywhere near manipulative. Peter is better than that.

Peter must find a particularly absorbing passage in the bestiary because he suddenly shuts up. Stiles gets into the magic that is Google and finds contradictory lore on witches and faeries. Time passes quickly.

“It isn’t about that Lydia girl is it? The reason you hate me. I thought it was at first but I realized it was something else,” Peter says without warning. Stiles looks at the clock in the corner of his screen and is surprised to see that they’ve been silent for a little over three hours.

“It’s a big part of it.”

“But I never intended to kill her.”

“No, you only intended to traumatize the fuck out of her. So much better.” That’s not strictly accurate; Peter intended to use her, whether she was traumatized or not was inconsequential _not_ intentional.

“But Derek did intend to kill her and yet you’ve forgiven him,” Peter muses like Stiles hasn’t spoken.

“Uh, no. I really haven’t.” Shit, his concentration is blown now. He can’t remember what he was typing.

“Is it about Derek? Your heartbeat skipped.”

Stiles closes his laptop. Apparently they were having this out. He was playing right into Peter’s game by letting himself get affected but he didn’t care. He was going to be honest because honesty was like holy water to pathological liars.

“Laura,” Stiles says.

Peter tilts his head. Cautiously? Thoughtfully? Stiles doesn’t know. He doesn’t know Peter well enough to read him right.

“You killed her. Your own niece. After everyone else was dead and she was one of the few Hales left? I just. I can’t even wrap my head around that.” He really can’t. It’s like a 404 error pops up whenever he tries to analyze Peter’s reasoning. Error! This file does not fucking exist. “You say you killed those people because they deserved it. Because they were responsible for wiping out the Hales. But then you kill _Laura_? Her life should’ve been worth more than that. More than _all_ of them. That’s why.”

That’s why Stiles hated him. For Laura Hale.

Ah shit, he’s getting emotional. He just couldn’t imagine killing Scott so he’d have the power to murder the stupid driver who hit his mom and paralyzed her. And ultimately killed her. Maybe that’s because she was just one death. And Peter suffered eleven. (But Derek suffered twelve.)

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Peter says. His face is blank, visibly guarded. Well, that’s something.

Stiles laughs. “You know what? I don’t think there’s anything to get. Seriously. What the hell did it all accomplish? What changed other than another dead Hale?”

“Simple. Those people don’t get to be happy anymore.”

“Like I said. What did that accomplish.” Stiles studies him. He doesn’t miss the tiniest, briefest flare of blue in Peter’s eyes before his attention turns to the entrance.

Derek and the others return. Poor Scott lingers a few feet behind the pack, behind Isaac, but he has a small smile on his face. He catches Stiles’ eye and gives a thumbs up. Stiles returns it without knowing what it’s for.

He stuffs his laptop in his bag and joins the others at the map, watching Derek make marks in the circled areas of the Preserve. Scott’s circle is shaded the most.

“You all did better than I thought you would. Isaac, you’re still too cautious. Boyd, you did well but that’s only because you were following Erica’s lead. Your instincts can’t be dependent on her leadership. I’ll have to split you two up for awhile.” The dynamic duo did not look pleased. Derek, for his part, looked somewhat apologetic. “Jackson, you’re erratic. You were too focused on making this a competition and winning it. That type of rivalry is a human concept and it held your instincts back. You’ll do fine if you just focus on yourself. Scott and Erica.” They stand at opposite ends of the table. Derek glances between them. “Well done.”

Erica preens under Derek’s praise and bumps her hip happily against Boyd’s. He pats her head shyly. Scott grins and Stiles grabs him by the shoulder and shakes him, pleased by his success. Isaac doesn’t look bothered by his criticism. Jackson, on the other hand, glowers at Scott like Scott robbed him of everything he wanted in life.

And Derek is looking at Stiles. Which is unexpected. This is a happy pack moment. He should be glaring at his puppies with manfully concealed fluffy, squishy feelings. Derek looks away, to the wall Peter was working against. He’s no longer there.

Derek dismisses them. And thus concludes Stiles and Scott’s first pack night.

As they’re buckling their seatbelts in the jeep, Scott says, ”You know, he heard you and Peter. Well, we all did. But yeah.”

Stiles groans. His head ducks close to the steering wheel. “Fucking why.”

“If it helps, I think he appreciated it.”

Yeah, Stiles thinks. Right.

After Stiles drops Scott off at his house, it occurs to him that Peter must’ve heard them coming and intended for them to hear their conversation. He has no idea what to make of that.

 

 

III.

 

Stiles is at his locker, packing up for the day, when Erica’s face suddenly appears where his locker door had hung open. He’s easily startled, so maybe he jumps a _little_ higher than necessary.

“Jesus. Bells on all of you. Is Derek covering stalking 101 because you win another gold-star.” Stiles slings his bag over his shoulder and gets his breath back.

Erica grins. It’s one of those slow, shark-like, predator grins that she never had before she was turned. At least not that he noticed.

“Stiles,” she sings.

He cowers a little. “Are you going to hit me with more big, heavy objects because I’ll give you anything to avoid nearly getting acquainted with _brain damage_ again, thanks.”

She holds out her chemistry book with both hands. And yeah, it really didn’t need to be that close to his face for him to read it.

“Um. No thank you, I already have one? Please don’t hit me with that? Yes, that is a pretty shade of green?”

“Help.”

Stiles sighs. “You know you’ve been hanging out with Derek too long when you become incapable of using sentences. I wonder if one-word responses are contagious like lycanth—”

Now the book is pressing hard against his mouth.

“Shut up, you idiot. Don’t say that so fucking carelessly.”

Right. Wrong person to tease about being a werewolf in public.

Stiles leans back. “Sorry. So what do you need?”

Erica pulls the book to her chest, which Stiles doesn’t look at it. She runs a hand aggressively through her long, blonde hair. She’s not smiling anymore. “If I don’t pass this final I’m going to fail Chem and suffer through another year of Mr. Harris. Stiles.” Erica’s gaze is steady and serious. “I won’t be responsible for how that will go. And it will go badly. And there will be lots of blood and entrails. Possibly castration.”

“You’ll be a celebrated hero. Queen of Beacon Hills High. Lydia won’t be pleased.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” she whines. She honest to God whines like a puppy. “I’d rather pass the stupid test.”

Stiles pauses. “I was kidding, you know. About getting cheered on for murder.”

Erica stares.

“Okay. Um. Do you want to study or something?”

She rolls her eyes. “Duh. But my parents want me home right after school.” Stiles is shocked to see a quick flash of gold in her eye. That’s beyond common annoyance.

“Okay. Sure. When?”

“Now.”

Stiles blinks. “You couldn’t have given me any more notice? What if I had plans?”

Erica stares. It’s unnerving.

“Okay. Fine. I guess I’m driving.”

She nods and follows him to the school parking lot.

When they get in the jeep, Stiles notices Erica pulling her short skirt down to cover more of her thighs. She catches him looking and glares.

“Forget it. You don’t have a chance.”

Stiles makes what he hopes is a placating gesture. “Actually, I was just wondering why you wear stuff that clearly makes you uncomfortable.”

Judging by her raised eyebrows and slight sneer, Erica doesn’t believe him. Stiles just asks her for directions without bothering to challenge her skepticism. She lives close to the hospital.

After the first few turns, they reach a long stretch of road. Stiles glances at her out of the corner of his eye. She’s turned away from him, looking out the window. All he can see is the back of her head.

“Seriously though. You shouldn’t make yourself uncomfortable for their sakes. You’re not winning the game you’re playing if your decisions rely on what those guys think, right?”

Erica punches him in the same shoulder she bruised the other week. She doesn’t check her strength and causes him to serve onto the other side of the road. Fortunately, there wasn’t any oncoming traffic.

“Driving! Beat up later but preferably never!”

Erica is mostly unapologetic. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. And I can take care of myself.”

“I wasn’t and I know you can.” Stiles grits his teeth.

Erica doesn’t say anything else.

“If this is how you repay a guy for doing you a small favor, I don’t think I want to get on your good side. I don’t think I’d survive. I’m sure you give appreciative hugs like an angry grizzly bear.”

That earns him a small smile.

They don’t speak for the rest of the drive. Stiles fiddles with the radio to distract him from the silence. Silence is like an invitation to say something regrettable, which his mouth will take advantage of as soon as the opportunity arises.

They arrive at a large, white house with blue shutters and a stylish awning jutting above the front door. There’s an addition on one side that looks like a dwarfed version of the main house, but other than that, it’s painfully ordinary for a badass she-wolf.

Erica unlocks the door and waves him inside. She leads him to the living room where he sees her father on the couch, typing on a laptop. Her mother is eating a sandwich at the dining room table beside the undivided kitchen. She’s surrounded by stacks of papers and is also typing on a laptop. Stiles guesses they work from home.

There are rubber stoppers on every sharp corner.

“Erica,” her father says without looking up from his laptop. “You remember that thing I said about being grounded and not having friends over?”

“He’s not a friend.” Erica raises her chin indignantly. “He’s my chemistry tutor.”

Erica’s mom looks up at them. “Are you really?” Her smile is wry and unconvinced.

Erica nudges him with her elbow.

“Not officially. She literally just roped me into it. But I’m good at chem and she said she’ll fail the class if she doesn’t pass the final so I said okay.” 

Erica doesn’t look too pleased by his honesty. Well tough shit if she wanted him to lie. She should’ve given him a script or something.

“Oh, Erica,” her father sighs.

Her mother frowns. This is apparently news to both of them.

“So we’re going to go study in my room,” Erica says. She’s defiant but there’s a hint of a question in her tone.

“Oh, honey,” her mother laughs. “Not a chance. You stay right where we can see you.”

Erica flashes one of her sharp, dangerous smiles.

That’s a bit—well. He knows that tone. He hears that distrust all the time from his dad these days. And it kills him a little.

“I’m going to go change,” Erica says and rushes back down the hall.

“I’m Stiles Stilinski by the way,” he says to be polite. He can guess what comes next.

Erica’s dad briefly glances up from his laptop. “What’s your real name?”

“Only my dad and birth certificate know.”

“Funny.” Erica’s father doesn’t laugh.

“I’m Joan.” Joan smiles. She seems somewhat nice at least.

“Eric.”

Well this was horrifying. Stiles sets his bag on the floor and stands awkwardly between Erica’s parents. He feels totally out of place and unwelcome.

“You seem eager to help a girl you barely know.”

“Eric,” Joan warns.

Eric still has his attention on his laptop. The way he initiates a conversation without having the decency to make eye contact reminds Stiles of Scott’s dad, and that was really bad for his impulse control. “Mutual friend thing. I’m good friends with Scott, who’s friends with Isaac, who’s friends with Erica. So we’re kind of in the same circle.”

“I noticed that Erica is the only girl in this circle,” Eric says coolly. And okay, Stiles can’t really fault the guy for being a bit overprotective or concerned by his daughter’s sudden and drastically different behavior, but he was toeing the line of calling her something nasty, or calling them something nasty. Stiles isn’t sure which.

“There was Allison Argent but she left.” For France. “And Lydia Martin.” Who didn’t attend pack meetings and had zero interaction with Erica in and out of school.

This conversation was some sort of trap that hadn’t reached the punch line. Stiles knew it.

What the hell was taking Erica so long?

“Look, Isaac, Scott, Boyd, and Jackson are good guys,” Stiles says. He doesn’t actually think Jackson is but they don’t need to know that. “I know that’s not much coming from someone you just met, but she’s safe with them. Actually, that’s beside the point. She doesn’t need their protection. She can take care of herself. But she has us anyway.”

The only reason he’s babbling is because he does get it. Erica had a serious medical condition and now doesn’t. That must be hard to wrap your head around and it must be even harder to trust that she’s okay without all the things that kept her safe before. That’s not even considering her werewolf power-tripping violent phase. Stiles bets she hasn’t told them anything or at least come up with a plausible lie. He has a feeling she doesn’t talk to them at all.

“I noticed you left Derek Hale out. Is he not a good guy?” Joan asks.

Oh, holy fuck. That would be the punch line. And while Stiles grew to anticipate Eric’s third degree, he didn’t see Joan’s coming.

“Well, Stiles?”

Shit. There is no way to describe Derek in understandable, placating terms. You knew him or you knew of him and thought the worst of him.

“Because it seems to me that Erica’s been hanging around him a lot. In a way that concerns the parent of a sixteen year old. How did she come to know a twenty-seven year old man?”

“Twenty-four,” Stiles corrects automatically. Oh damn it.

Eric and Joan watch him intently.

“Derek’s a good guy too,” Stiles starts slowly.

“Or he’s a predator,” Eric chimes in.

Stiles tries very hard not to burst out laughing. He almost succeeds.

“Something funny?” Joan asks. She sounds ready to toss him out the door.

This situation needs a quick and epic distraction. Well, they’re convinced that Derek’s up to no good or doing something shady, so he has to use that to his advantage. All he has to do is get their attention off of Erica, otherwise they might investigate a little too far.

“I left him out because I don’t want anyone to judge him or me. And I asked Erica not to talk about us because this is something really private.” And if Stiles sounds suitably anxious and mortified, that’s because he can’t believe this is the story he’s going with.

Joan’s eyes are wide and alarmed. Eric looks vaguely worried but also relieved.

Stiles shrugs his shoulders. He’s trying to go for confident but he’s a little nervous. “We got together. How that happened isn’t anyone’s business, but yeah, it was when I was barely seventeen. He—we haven’t done anything illegal. My dad knows about us. No, he’s not happy with it really. But he knows and he’s given us his consent or whatever, but mostly he knows I’m mature enough for this.”

That’s where Eric stops him with a disagreeing noise. “Is your father out of his mind?”

And bashing his father makes it really easy to lie to these people. “I’m eighteen.”  That’s a truth borrowed eight months from the future but they didn’t need to know that. “So it’s out of his hands. I got held back a year because of problems with my ADHD. That’s why I’m older, in case you’re wondering. And yeah. Mature. When your dad takes every shift imaginable to make ends meet, your dead mom isn’t going to take care of you. So you have to grow up pretty fast.” He hates himself for using her that way but a misappropriated truth is the most effective lie. And the unexpected subject of a tragedy usually shuts down a discussion.

“And this is exactly why I don’t want anyone to know. That look of judgment on your faces. I just want people to lay off him.”

Now Joan and Eric look extremely uncomfortable. May the Reyes never meet his dad long enough to have a conversation. Because then he would be so, so fucked.

Erica chooses that moment to make a reappearance. She’s dressed in her old gray sweatpants and a white tanktop, hair pulled back in ponytail.

She looks at Stiles and then back at her parents. “Look, we can go to the library instead.”

“No!” Joan cries. She accidentally knocks a few papers off the table. “No, that’s fine. You can study in your room. Thank you for helping her, Stiles.”

“Make sure she passes that test,” Eric mumbles. His shoulders are hunched forward and tense.

Stiles nods and picks up his bag. Erica leads him to a door near the foyer at the front entrance. Her bedroom is enormous but surprisingly sparse, containing only a bed, a dresser, three plastic storage units with drawers for her things, and a TV bolted to her wall. He can make out the covered outline of a garage door on the left wall.

“My parents didn’t want me to have a room upstairs. Because, you know,” she wiggles her fingers dramatically, “ _stairs_. They were always worried I’d fall down them.”

“Right,” he says absently. He’s still reeling from the colossal lie he just told.

They make themselves comfortable on Erica’s bed and pull out their books and notes.

“So apparently I’m your sassy gay friend now,” Stiles says.

Erica grins.

“And as your sassy gay friend, do not, under any circumstances, tell Derek what I just told your parents. No, you know what? Don’t tell anyone at all. Derek _will_ murder me.”

“That’s a promise I can’t make,” she says with glee. “I think my life depends on seeing the look on Derek’s face.”

“I understand. You don’t actually want to pass the chem final. That’s cool.” 

That wipes the smile off her face. With the utmost seriousness, she holds out her pinkie. They pinkie swear.

They can the chitchat and set to work making flash cards, reading the prep-tests in the book, and go over the “secret” questions that Stiles knows Harris will ask. He knows because those questions aren’t in the book and Harris is a sadistic fuck who would gladly see all of his students fail. Stiles finishes his work after an hour and without a focused task, the questions he kept at the back of his mind push forward.

“How did your parents find out about Derek?”

Erica doesn’t look up from her notebook. “They saw me getting out of his car after a few pack meetings.”

“You couldn’t borrow one of your parents’ cars and drive to the warehouse?”

Her eyes flare gold. “I’m not allowed to drive.”

Stiles frowns and taps his pen against his lips. “But you’re cured. Do they know?”

“Yup. Went to the neurologists’ and everything.”

“But the rubber things—”

“Been there since I was four.”

“And your pills—”

Her pencil snaps. “They still make me take them because the doctors aren’t sure what the MRIs are telling them. No taking any chances, they said.” She stares at the broken pieces of plastic in her hand.

Stiles feels guilty. He totally spoiled her concentration.

She takes a deep breath. “You know, I think they need me to be sick. They _want_ me to be weak. They don’t know how to treat me like more than a list of concerns and safety precautions. And I don’t think they want to learn.” She throws the plastic pieces across the room.

Stiles doesn’t really know what to say to that. He doesn’t know the Reyes well enough to disagree. He doesn’t know Erica well enough to have the right words in hand. He gives it a shot anyway. “I think they’re going to learn whether they want to or not. I just.” Stiles pauses. He hopes this doesn’t rock the boat. “I just wouldn’t give up on them yet. Sixteen years is a long time to have a habit. Just stand your ground.”

He cautiously pats her shoulder. She smiles, so apparently he did the right thing.

 

***

Erica aces the chem final.

 

***

At the next pack meet, Stiles and Jackson get into an argument about Lydia. He can’t stand that she picked a guy who still treated her so callously even after everything they’d gone through. After she _saved_ him. She deserves the best from him at all times, shouldn’t have to weather his abrasive mood swings. And Stiles may haphazardly jibe at him in search of a sore spot. And Stiles may discover it with too much success. It earns him a punch in the stomach with mostly unchecked werewolf strength.

Everything erupts into something like pandemonium. Shouting and screaming, Stiles vomiting, collapsing to his knees and then to the floor. He feels something horribly, horribly wrong underneath all the pain. He sees Scott take Jackson down but it’s Erica who flings him across the warehouse.

Derek is roaring, making them all sink into submission. At least Jackson has the decency to look horrified. Erica fights against Derek’s alpha voice and tries to pursue Jackson. Her protective instinct surprises everyone (except probably Boyd).

Scott takes Stiles to the emergency room. He has some internal bleeding and a broken rib.

But it’s Derek’s parting words that stick in his mind— _what the fuck did you expect by taunting a werewolf_ — and Stiles feels violently, violently furious.

 

 

IV.

 

Stiles spends his fourteenth day of summer like the last thirteen: lying in bed, in pain, with wrapped ribs, and a worried and suspicious father making him breakfast downstairs (although this is only the third time for the breakfast thing).

Their conversation at the emergency room didn’t go so well. He had to give a _statement_. He had to lie to his father, _again_ , and he was doing it so often that either he had developed an obvious tell or his dad just assumed that everything out of his mouth was a lie these days because his dad clearly didn’t buy the ‘some kid on a skateboard had a baseball bat and came at me’ excuse.

But what’s one more lie in the ocean splitting them apart?

His phone buzzes on his bedside table. He stares at it. Just thinking about reaching for it seems like too much effort. He knows what it’s about anyway and he has a good idea who it’s from.

Stiles has missed four pack meets (they have two a week in the summer now—yippe, double the “fun”). This would be his fifth miss. Apparently the first two were acceptable for recovery time, but by the third, Scott and Isaac came to relay Derek’s disapproval. And when they failed to persuade him to attend (and Scott really did try, which was surprising), Erica and Boyd stopped by. But as much as he has come to adore Erica during her visits, if Scott couldn’t do it, no one could.

His dad enters his room with a plate full of eggs, bacon, and toast, dressed in uniform with his badge pinned over his heart. He hands the plate to Stiles and Stiles shoves it under his chin, fingertips reaching for a strip of bacon.

“I don’t think so.” His dad takes the plate back. “You sit up and eat. You’re going to feel really stupid if you choke to death.”

Stiles grunts as he struggles upright. He’s sore and aching but infinitely grateful that nothing got punctured. He’d feel really stupid for internally bleeding to death too.

His dad returns the plate to him and sees the flashing screen on his phone.

“Scott?”

Stiles hums around a mouthful of bacon and toast.

“You two fighting?”

“Nah. I’m just busy enjoying the fruit of your labors, dearest father.” Half his eggs are already gone. How did that even happen?

His dad looks disturbed. “Don’t talk like that. It’s creepy.” He reaches down and ruffles Stiles’ hair. Stiles hasn’t buzzed it for awhile. He’s kind of satisfied with it longer these days.

“I’m off. Try to stay out of trouble and in one piece.”

“Bye. No promises. Even swallowing spit can have severe consequences for me.”

His dad laughs at him as he leaves. Being stuck at home has been nice for both of them. It’s good to know that he can still make his dad laugh.

When Stiles hears gravel crunching under tires, he knows his dad is gone. He sets the empty plate aside on the bedside table and grabs his phone.  It’s Scott.

_answr in 2 mins or suffer d’s punishment  u dont  want that trust me_

Aw, Scott. Nice try. Deleted.

He reaches for his water bottle and finds it empty. That means moving. How unpleasant.

Stiles slowly gets out of bed, careful not to twist his body unnecessarily. It’s funny how you don’t realize how often you use a part of your body until you have to stop. He shuffles downstairs and into the kitchen, cursing cabinets and shelves and everything with height, as he takes a glass and fills it up in the sink. He turns to get some ice from the freezer.

And nearly pisses himself when he sees Jackson leaning against the side of the open arch separating the kitchen and living room. The glass slips out of his hand and shatters on the floor.

“Bells! Motherfucking bells!” Stiles shouts. The sight of Jackson startled him into taking too big a breath and now his ribs feel like they’re splitting.

He glances down at the glass all over the floor and then at Jackson, who looks ready to self-destruct with disdain. Or wolf-out all over the place. His eyes are glowing blue so he’s partially there already.

“That’s your fault,” Stiles says pointing to the floor. “So you can clean it up.”

“Not a fucking chance.” Stiles is fascinated by how Jackson can draw out each word like they’re little heartfelt declarations of hatred. Derek should add that to his alpha act. God knows he could use some tips in intimidation to make up for his shitty leadership skills. If you can’t lead, terrorize more!

And now Stiles is furious all over again.

“Okay, how about this. This is your fault,” he says pointing to his ribs. “So even though I want to clean that up.” He points to the floor. “I can’t.”

Stiles gestures to a narrow closet built into the wall beside the microwave. Jackson opens it and grabs the dustpan and broom inside. He slams the door closed—that would be the sound of the wood splitting—and abuses his werewolf speed by collecting all the glass in five seconds. Jackson spots the trashcan by the fridge and his finger punches a hole in the button that causes the lid to pop open. He flings the glass inside.

And how is Stiles going to explain that hole to his dad? Oh, sorry, Dad, I was just trying to unscrew the trashcan open with a Philips head and missed with the force of a wrecking ball—what’s that? You think I’m _lying_?     

Jackson violently returns the dustpan and broom inside the closet. Stiles hears plastic snap.

“Stop!” he says when Jackson’s about to close the door. 

Jackson keeps his eyes on Stiles as he mockingly pokes the door closed. It still slams loudly but there’s not enough force to actually break the door in two.

“What a productive temper tantrum. I’m sure my kitchen knows its place now,” Stiles says through clenched teeth.

“You’re going to the warehouse even if I have to break the rest of your bones while I drag you there.”

Stiles blinks. “Really? Hm. Let me think about that. No, you know what? I’m good here so off you go.”

“Well, what the fuck will convince you? You want me to beg you for forgiveness on my hands and knees?” Jackson laughs. “Maybe in your wet dreams. You’re more of a pansy than I thought you were, and that is saying _a lot_. Avoiding the pack because you’re afraid of me.” Jackson grins and allows his fangs to show. His misplaced humor quickly sours into contempt. “It’s so pathetic. Derek never should’ve let you in.”

Stiles may not have fangs, but he can bare his teeth too. “Oh, Jackson. You’re too pretty for thinking. Which explains why you’re so off base.”

Jackson scoffs. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I’m not even mad at you. Well, not for this.” Stiles indicates his ribs. “I’ll always be mad at you for Lydia.”

Jackson roars. There’s no other way to describe it. The way werewolves roared like lions instead of snarled like wolves always confused Stiles. But now he thinks he gets it, the effect of being on the receiving end of something so feral and predatory. Stiles can’t stop his lizard brain from lighting up with fear.

“Not this _again_. Fine. You know what will always piss me off about _you_?” Jackson growls. His eyes shine electric blue. “The way you act on Lydia’s behalf and don’t even know her. You literally don’t even _know_ her. You think staring at her and creeping in her shadow like a lovesick puppy actually makes you an authority on her feelings?  Whatever you learned about her wasn’t given to you. You took it. Maybe she ignored you because she fucking had the right to. You think as Mr. Nice Guy or whatever she should feel obligated to give you the time of day? Oh, get over yourself!”

Stiles’ blood is racing. His heart thundering. His insides feel like liquid, not like water, but something lighter than that, something ready to rise out of his body or leak out of his pores. His limbs are cold, his hands and feet the coldest, despite the heavy summer heat. He’s shocked. He’s so shocked it steals his breath. And it hurts.

This is something he has worried about before. But it hasn’t been a worry since he and Lydia finally became friends.

He didn’t think that about her. He didn’t. He just wanted to be kind. To her. For whatever reason. He couldn’t help what he felt—what he came to feel for her—just by looking for all those years. He has an argument but he can’t pull it together. He can’t find his voice.

This has to be some sort of werewolf power. Causing this fear, triggering a prey instinct. He feels supernaturally affected somehow. It’s like what alphas do with their voice, that power to paralyze. God, he can’t _move_.

“So you know she’s a genius and pretty. What else? What has _she_ confessed to _you_? I know her better than you ever will because she let me. Stop trying to _take_ that from her.”

That’s not it. It’s not just how he feels about Lydia. If she were anyone else, any other girl, and he’d seen a guy do those things to her—to any other girl—abandoning her for power twice. Blaming her for something he’d done. Making her cry because he was angry about something totally unrelated to her.

Stiles gapes at him, trying to make a sound. He’s still pinned by some invisible power.

“Oh, what’s that? _Speak up_.” Jackson’s voice is inhuman.

That night on the field. Lydia was bleeding so much. And the way Jackson treated her after she was attacked was so wrong, so vicious and undeserved. Stiles would never forget it or forgive it. The aftermath of that night always springs to mind whenever he does something stupid to her. She was bleeding and she could’ve died and Jackson got her back and that should’ve been worth _everything_. Stiles wishes he had that chance. She was bleeding in the hospital. She was bleeding so much. In the hospital.

You bastard.

It takes Stiles a moment to realize he’d been speaking out loud. He can’t remember when he started. But it’s too late now. He realizes too late that he’s having a panic attack in front of Jackson. _Jackson_ , of all people. Lydia is a sore spot for him and Jackson just grabbed that and twisted. That raw feeling, that floor dropping sensation, it was too much like his other sore spot. He got confused. He is confused.

And he can’t breathe. And God does that sting. With a busted rib. And bruised insides.

“What the fuck?” Jackson says as Stiles sinks to the floor. The knob on the cabinet door below the sink digs painfully into his back. “Wow. Is this really that much for you to handle?” Stiles would think Jackson was being a heartless scumbag if he couldn’t hear the fucking _bewilderment_ in his voice.

“Ha. Still. So stupid. Way off base.” He gasps.

Jackson is at such a loss. Stiles would laugh if he could. If he felt like laughing. Which he doesn’t. He mostly feels humiliated.

“What do you do for.” Jackson cuts off, unsure of what was actually happening to Stiles to put a name to it.

He doesn’t answer.

“Can you stop it?”

No, obviously.

“You better not be broken. Derek will fucking kill me.”

That could be funny to watch.

Jackson grits his teeth and straightens his shirt. “Look, what you said. Lydia and I—our relationship is our business. What we do to each other, if we hurt each other, it’s our business. She’s not always so sweet to me either. And if we regret anything, it’s not for anyone to know. It’s not healthy, or whatever. But it’s our fucking business.”

Stiles wouldn’t reply even if he could.

Jackson sighs, like he’s frustrated. The poor baby. “The pack’s getting all fucked up. McCall’s all on edge and distant. It’s pissing everyone else off. And he and Erica are out to get me. The two Switzerlands don’t know where they stand. Big surprise. Derek said it’s your fault because you’re not there.”

Was he seriously trying to guilt trip the hyperventilating kid? Stiles takes it back, Jackson is a heartless scumbag.

“You’d do anything for McCall, wouldn’t you? We’re finding some dangerous shit in the Preserve. Something could happen to him if things don’t start getting better.”

Jackson must sense (or hear) that Stiles’ breathing is evening out because he’s sneering again. Stiles kind of wants to throw up or go to bed. Or both, but preferably not in the same place.

He grunts and cradles his aching ribs as he picks himself up off the floor. He leans back against the edge of the sink to steady himself. “Fine. Will be there. Go tell your asshole of an alpha.”

Jackson cocks his head to the side. After a pause, he says with hint of wonder, “You’re pissed at _Derek_.”

Stiles grimaces. “Why’d you go and have a thought? Now all your pretty will fade.”

Jackson’s shark-like grin would make Erica homicidal with envy.

Stiles waves in the direction of the front door. “Mission accomplished. Go collect your terrorize-the-human badge.”

Jackson leaves without a word.  

Stiles grabs another glass of water and heads back up to his room. He takes a few sips, sets the glass on the bedside table, and sends Scott a message telling him he’ll be there. He remembers to set an alarm before his head hits his pillow and he’s out.

 

 

V.

 

“You look like hell,” Isaac says when he greets Stiles at the rusty front door of the warehouse. How weird is it that they have a key and lock up like this is their vacation home or something? Stiles thinks it’s weird. He also doesn’t think it serves a security purpose.

“I suggest you work on your flattery because that really will get you nowhere.” Stiles yawns and rubs his dry, tired eyes. He’s still pale and worn from his panic attack and injuries.

When he steps inside, he’s nearly bowled over by two over-enthusiastic werewolves. Scott’s arm drapes over Stile’s shoulder a little too heavily, forcing out a grunt, and his hand runs up and down Stiles’ arm, practically _petting_ him. An overheated cheek rests against his ear. What the fuck.

Erica wraps her arms around his chest. Her aim is a little too low and she ends up pressing on Stiles’ sensitive bruises. He yelps. Her arms slide higher. Scott snaps his fangs at Erica and she snaps back. Suddenly Stiles is a toy between two growling werewolves.

“Knock it off,” he says. They shut up.

Boyd approaches him then and, as he does with pretty much everything, follows Erica’s lead and pats Stiles on the head. He does it so seriously and so impersonally that Stiles can do little more than stare like a deer about to get creamed by a car. Boyd steps back, apparently satisfied with his participation in the lets-violate-the-rules-of-personal-space game.

Did Derek introduce them to wolfsbane doobies or something?

Isaac hovers outside the four of them, like he thinks he should touch Stiles because that’s what all the cool kids are doing, but he really doesn’t want to. Jackson looks like he’d rather jump off a cliff and will if given the choice. Peter and Derek are deeper in the warehouse, standing beside the second door that leads to the basement. They’re two different kinds of amused.

“This,” Stiles says to Derek. “This thing. This is pretty much what Scott does when we see each other at school. What is this touchy, dependency thing. And now she’s doing it,” he says as Erica hooks her chin on the edge of his left shoulder, the only part not covered by Scott’s arm.

“It’s a pack thing.”

“No! You don’t say! That isn’t the most obvious and generic answer you could possibly give or anything.”

Derek shrugs. “Werewolves are very tactile. That’s really all there is to it. They’re newly turned so they don’t know how to control the instinct that’s making them want to prove their affection. And you were hurt, which makes it worse.”

Oh that’s priceless. Derek’s still fucking blaming him.

“They’re actually puppies,” Stiles mutters to himself. He jokes about that all the time but didn’t think there was any truth behind it.

Derek rolls his eyes, uncrosses his arms, and disappears down the stairwell behind the door. Peter and Jackson trail after him.

Erica and Scott must feel that they’ve proven their affection well enough because they pull away. Scott scratches at the back of his neck, mildly embarrassed, while Erica returns to Boyd’s side and slams her hip against his. It looks painful but Boyd seems pleased.

“If you’re done messing around you can all get down here and get back to sparring.” They hear Derek’s muffled voice carry through the open doorway.

Erica, Boyd, and Isaac make their way across the room, stepping over the scattered mess of broken glass, cinderblocks and metal pipes. Scott and Stiles lag behind.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Scott says. “Things already feel less weird.”

Stiles is happy to put Scott at ease but the burning need to run Derek over with a steamroller puts a dampener on his mood.

They reach the basement which is surprisingly better lit than the first floor even if half the long fluorescent tubes in the ceiling flicker constantly. The walls are concrete, thick and sturdy, although there are some large indentations where someone’s body must’ve collided with an incredible amount of force. There aren’t any windows, a perfect trait to keep any unlikely onlookers from seeing some rather unusual things.

They split into two teams: Scott, Jackson, and Derek in one and Erica, Boyd, and Isaac in the other. When they start to fight, Stiles sees what Jackson meant about Scott and Erica being out to get him. Derek is more referee than combatant; he only put himself in the middle of the fray to keep the numbers even. And Stiles understands why. Scott doesn’t do anything to cover Jackson’s back. He throws Boyd and Isaac in Jackson’s direction a few times, not so they’re incapacitated but to direct their attacks on him. And then there’s Erica, who makes an honest effort to slash Jackson’s throat. Derek has to fling her across the room more than once to keep her off of him.  

Stiles doesn’t think they even realize what they’re doing. Their grudges are influencing their baser instincts.

“You should probably do something about that,” Peter says while typing on his laptop.

Stiles glances at him. He returns his attention to the fight in time to see Erica make another go for Jackson’s jugular.

“Guys!” he shouts. They all pause and look at him, frozen in mid-motion (except for Derek, who’s keeping an eye on Erica).  It’s sort of hilarious. “It’s fine. It was an accident. Well, not the punching, but the severity of it. Don’t worry about it.” He makes a pushing gesture with his hands to signal that they can continue their fight club.

It’s not ideal, but it is better. Scott still doesn’t cover Jackson’s back (and Stiles doesn’t really expect him to) but he’s not piling all the offense onto him. Erica still goes after Jackson the most but she’s not actively trying to kill him this time.

They call it a night. Derek approaches Stiles before he and Scott head up the stairs. Scott stays but keeps his distance.

Derek doesn’t loom over him (that’s kind of hard when they’re practically the same height) but he does step into his space enough to throw him off balance. “We had a deal. You come when I call and you don’t question me. That’s the only way this is going to work. You saw what they were doing.” And Scott looks a bit guilty but also ready to intervene if Derek gets any closer. “And when you weren’t here, it was worse. Erica broke his spine the first night you didn’t show up and Scott nearly disemboweled him the next. And for what? I told you they’d get violent.” Which is so not fair because they were talking about Scott being in danger not anyone else. “You went back on your word over something stupid.”

It’s so hard to restrain the impulse to punch him. Stiles is half tempted to give it a shot in case the motion and his intent are enough to release some of the blinding rage weighing him down. He’s overflowing with it, sick with it. His impulse control is completely shot to hell and the words just _go_.

“You’re such a fucking idiot.”

Derek’s eyes flare red but he doesn’t move to touch him. He has more control than Jackson and Erica. But the shift in eye color is enough to tell Stiles he’s toeing the line.  

“You don’t even know—No, you know what, you wouldn’t care about why. I’m so sorry my almighty werewolf master!” Stiles imitates a mocking, smarmy tone. It’s grating even to his own ears. Derek’s expression becomes something like disgust. “This unworthy human doesn’t know what it was thinking. This unworthy human forgot to bow down to the fucking majesty of the werewolf species.”

Derek’s face flushes red with his own contained fury. That expression might be hate. “Did you seriously just fucking say what I think you said?”

Stiles talks over him. “What was it thinking, taunting a werewolf?” Now there’s recognition in Derek’s eyes. “It certainly got what it deserved, right? Too bad a few more ribs didn’t break, that really would’ve shown him his place.” That’s where Stiles flounders because third-person stops working for everything else he has to say. “It’s fucking okay for Jackson to punch me because he’s a werewolf? Are you shitting me?” Stiles laughs. “Do werewolves just have a free pass to do whatever they want to humans in their packs because we’re oh so fucking inferior?”

“What the hell? Of course not!”

“Oh, so it’s just yours then.”

Derek rubs the skin around his eyes with his fingertips and pinches the bridge of his nose, tired and frustrated. “Stiles, they’re not in control. They’re unstable. You wouldn’t try to poke a wild or cornered animal with a stick, would you? Well, you might.” He’s not really going for humor. He sounds vaguely annoyed by the idea. “Reasonable precautions have to be taken. You infringe on their territory even in conversation and they’re going to flip.”

Stiles makes a face.

“Yes, territory. That just means the important things and people in their lives. Your dad is your territory, get it?”

“Your point isn’t going beyond what you’ve already established,” Stiles says bitterly.

“Jackson could have killed you.” Derek enunciates every word like this fact somehow escaped Stiles’ knowledge. It really didn’t. “I was too preoccupied by making sure no one died. I wasn’t really thinking. It didn’t mean any of.” Derek sweeps a hand across the air. “that. _Jesus_.”

Now Stiles is mortified for the second time today.

His fury is still fresh and breathing, self-righteous and inconsolable until it can draw blood and _win_. He can’t purge the storm he felt in the mess of those events: the knowledge that he couldn’t depend on Derek to stand up for him, the inability to protect himself and the shock that he was expected to. Or he thought he was expected to, anyway

His heart and head are misaligned. He’s disoriented by the desperate need to injure (even if that’s just his fist against a wall) and to take back the evidence of his stupidity. He feels so embarrassed for being such a kid.

“Oh.” And that’s really all he can think of to say. He won’t apologize because Derek didn’t either and that is something he should’ve done even if this was just some horrible miscommunication.

They stand awkwardly, unmoving and tense. Scott clears his throat.

“Um, we’re going to go now.” Scott grabs Stiles by the elbow and pulls him toward the stairs.

They’re up a couple of steps when Derek says, “Stiles.”

Stiles turns and looks down at Derek, ignoring Scott’s insistent tug. Derek’s eyes focus on some point behind them. His hands are shoved in his pockets and his expression is pinched, mouth taut and eyebrows drawn together. “Humans are protected. Highly and carefully. Sometimes obsessively. For the packs that have them.” His voice is pained, like he’s admitting this under torture.

Stiles still doesn’t know what to say. He nods. “Okay. That’s good.” He’s only there to keep Scott stable so he’s not sure if that applies to him anyway.

“Yeah. Take care of yourself.”

They flee.

The warehouse is empty, but that doesn’t mean the others didn’t hear everything. Although Stiles hopes it does. He knows Peter is around somewhere and definitely heard. Stiles might bring a mountain ash club in case he says _anything_. Scott tries to talk to him when they’re outside but Stiles holds up his hands to stop him. It’s enough to make Scott pause and give Stiles the opportunity to quickly escape to his jeep. He lingers, doesn’t start the engine until Scott gets into his mom’s car and drives away.

He slams his fist down on the dashboard.

 

 

VI.

 

The awkwardness of the next pack meet is surprisingly easy to endure. Derek and the others don’t stay long. They set out to prowl the Preserve in search of the mysterious “danger” that’s haunting their happy little forest. Peter doesn’t say a word (Stiles suspects some pretty convincing threats from Derek are to thank for that) and after a few more pack meets, things blow over.

It’s a few weeks later that Derek and his merry band of wolves return with a solid lead. The dangerous thing skulking around is a “type” of faerie, Derek says. Stiles can hear some special inflection around the word, which makes him suspect that Derek and Peter know exactly what it is and aren’t saying. And that better not be the truth because they’re going to have a long talk about keeping valuable info to themselves.

But despite Derek’s ominous aura, Stiles is relieved. When dealing with faeries, the rule of thumb seems to be “keep your distance and everything will be fine.” At least that’s what the books and his research say. So how bad can it be? 

 

***

 

Well, it can be pretty fucking bad apparently.

Stiles is at the warehouse, using the table as the most uncomfortable bed ever and clicking around on his computer, bored from the monotonous work that accompanies every meeting and sick of the undesirable company, when the door bursts open. Literally flies right off its hinges and slides about ten feet across the floor.

Derek hauls Isaac inside. His arm is missing.

Scott, Erica, Boyd, and Jackson follow at a sedate pace. They look physically unharmed, although their clothes are torn and soaked with huge patches of blood. They’re clearly shell-shocked, pale, wide-eyed, and trembling. 

“ _Stiles, move_!” Derek shouts.

Stiles scrambles off the table with his arms awkwardly cradling his laptop. He closes it and puts it on the floor before he has a chance to drop it.

Derek settles Isaac on the table and Stiles chooses the wrong moment to glance over. Black blood bubbles around the severed limb. The jagged end of his humerus bone (what’s left of it) sticks out of the shredded meat of his upper arm, which is pretty much just his shoulder now. White fragments protrude out of the mess and it doesn’t take Stiles long to realize they’re enormous teeth, as long and thick as his fingers. He gags.

Isaac is catatonic. His eyes blaze gold and stare at the ceiling. His mouth hangs open, gaping and confused. If he weren’t breathing—which he’s not doing very well—Stiles would think he was dead.

“Oh dear,” Peter says. And it is, by far, the most understated reaction that anyone could have right now. Stiles turns to him and hopes his squawk of disbelief communicates that thought.

“You have to pull them out. Werewolves can’t touch them,” Derek says behind him.

Oh no. Oh no, no. This was like the thing with the bone saw all over again.

Derek glares at him when he doesn’t step up right away. He can barely look at _it_ much less _touch it_. His vision dims around the edges. He might faint. Yep, that would be his knees buckling.

“Oh no you don’t.” Peter is suddenly at his back, holding him up with his hands underneath Stiles’ armpits.

“Just.” Derek sighs heavily. “Close your eyes and give me your hand.” Stiles obeys and feels his hand guided to one of the four—ew, ew, ew, they’re _burning_ —teeth in Isaac’s bloody, bubbly, stump. “Now pull hard.” Stiles yanks back and his elbow collides with Peter’s chest. They repeat the exercise three more times, until all the teeth are scattered on the floor. Derek releases his hand.

Stiles opens his eyes and stares at the black smears on his palm. He looks at Isaac. Gradually, the bubbling stops. Black blood turns red, and then skin grows over the open wound. Oh, no. Stiles looks at Derek, alarmed.

“Don’t worry. That’s just to stop the bleeding. His arm will grow back but it’ll take time.”

Isaac moans. That’s a good sign at least. “I don’t want to be the one-armed man,” he whines. He glances at his shoulder and swallows hard. “That’s going to make going outside really problematic.”

Stiles runs to his bag and pulls out the long sleeved shirt he brings in case he gets cold. It may be summer but the warehouse gets drafty some nights. He helps Isaac put his arm through the left sleeve and watches the other one droop against his side. It looks weird but at least the stump isn’t showing.

“Thanks,” Isaac mutters.

The others snap out of it and gather around the table. Erica ruffles Isaac’s hair with both hands a little too desperately. Scott doesn’t touch him but he smiles, relieved by his recovery. Jackson doesn’t do either but his shoulders aren’t tense and trembling.

Boyd shakes his head, frowning. “That was stupid, man. I can’t believe you tried to claw its face off.”

Derek groans. “Did you really?”

Isaac is sheepish. “I panicked.”

“So it _is_ Mimi then,” Peter says. Everyone looks at him.

“Mimi? Jaws the faerie is named Mimi?” Stiles laughs a little too loudly. It’s not that funny. His adrenaline is just crashing.

“You couldn’t hope to pronounce her full name.”

“But you guys did know there was a vicious Tinkerbelle in the woods, right?” Stiles isn’t really asking. He already suspected as much. And now he’s pissed because they could’ve died. Isaac could’ve lost a hell of a lot more than his arm. “Didn’t we establish the rule that sharing is caring, Derek?”

Scott’s face looks mutinous but whatever he’s thinking, he keeps to himself. That doesn’t stop his claws from scraping at the metal table. If Derek notices it, he doesn’t comment.

“No, not Tinkerbelle. Tinkerbelle would at least be little. That thing was a giant,” Boyd says. He really must be shaken up. He doesn’t usually talk to Stiles.

Derek helps Isaac off of the table. “I didn’t think she’d be awake. She’s a crayth.” Derek pauses, thoughtful, searching for the right phrasing. “They filter energy, I guess. But first that energy needs to be around. She had a symbiotic relationship with our family for a long time. But after the fire, she wouldn’t have had anything to sustain her and would’ve been forced into hibernation. I don’t know what woke her up.”

“Besides us?” Jackson motions to the room full of werewolves.

Peter sighs. “We’re not strong enough for that. This is little more than a group of bumbling puppies. Or at least that’s what Stiles says.”

Derek scowls at both of them, clearly offended by the slight against his leadership.

That lying asshole. Stiles has never said that out loud.

Something occurs to him. “So the alpha pack that just moseyed on in and vanished off the face of the earth in the most anticlimactic way ever. That couldn’t have done it, could it?”

Peter shoots him a surprised, impressed look.  Derek is equally taken back by the idea. “That would make a lot of sense,” he says. “The alpha pack is nomadic so they wouldn’t agree to a bond with her. She probably ate them.”

Stiles’ eyebrows attempt to launch into his forehead. Scott, Erica, Isaac, and Jackson are just as stunned. Boyd looks mildly unnerved. Peter apparently lost interest in their discussion and is typing on his laptop.

“How is she still awake if she ate them?”  Scott asks with a sharp edge of irritation. The fact that this information is coming out now _is_ a poor mark on Derek’s leadership that he should be concerned about. It’s not a mistake Scott and Stiles are willing to overlook.

Derek winces and rubs the back of his neck. Stiles wonders why he does it. He can’t be in pain. “They’ll keep her going for awhile. She’s probably looking to move somewhere else.”

“That’s great!” Stiles says. Problem solved.

The corner of Derek’s mouth curls in a silent snarl. “Crayths are rooted to their land. It would take more than five alphas to provide enough energy for a move. She’ll continue to eat every supernatural creature she can find. Other fae, apparitions, eventually us.”

“Not so great.”

“Unless we can convince her to bond with us.”

“Um. That’s great?”

“Except we’re not strong enough to sustain her,” Peter says. Oh look, he does care.

Stiles groans. “Oh my God, will you stop jerking us around and get to the point?”

Derek winces again and Stiles thinks it’s because he has a horrible, horrible plan. “You’ll have to convince her to wait until we’re stronger. She should take the deal.”

Stiles lets that sink in. “You want me to make a business pitch to Jaws? Are you out of your mind?”

“You won’t be alone. Boyd and Isaac are going with you.”

“What!” Isaac gapes at Derek. He flaps his empty sleeve like a white flag. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve done my part. Injured in the line of duty, man. Give a soldier a rest.”

Boyd just shrugs and says, “Okay.”

Erica makes a small whine as she places a hand on Boyd’s shoulder. “If I lose my boyfriend and my favorite pet, I’ll never forgive you, Derek.”

Stiles doesn’t think anyone else sees how hard that hits Derek.

Scott growls, his insubordination getting the better of him. Derek’s eyes flash red in warning but Scott won’t be cowed into submission this time, not while his protective instinct is in full swing. “Stiles can stay. I’ll go instead.”

Derek shakes his head. “She’ll eat you in a heartbeat. The same goes for me, Jackson, Peter, and Erica. Isaac and Boyd are the only two who haven’t fully come into their powers. And she wouldn’t touch a human. No energy, no point.”

That takes the wind out of Scott’s sails. He deflates, breath expelling from his lungs loudly, expression pained but still rebellious. Stiles goes to him and claps a hand over his shoulder.

“Stiles will be fine,” Derek assures them.

Stiles’ laugh trembles. “You’re that convinced of my conversational skills, are you?”

Derek gives him a small, mocking smile. “More like your ability to annoy people into doing anything to shut you up.”

“Anything?” Stiles grins slowly. “Really? I should put that to the test.” Derek squints at him and his mouth can’t decide whether it wants to press thin or hang open. It just twitches. That’s definitely a what-the-fuck face. It takes Stiles a moment to realize that sounded a bit like a proposition. Ha. Oops? He rolls his eyes dramatically in an effort to conceal his embarrassment. “I feel so almighty.”

“Good thing it’s not a real power or else you’d have us all beat.”

“So when are we doing this thing?” Isaac interrupts. “Because I don’t care what you say. I’m not doing anything more tonight.”

They decide on Thursday.

 

***

 

It takes them three hours to reach the lair of the monstrous Mimi. It’s ethereal, like something out of an old folktale and not that Disney crap. Brambles and thickets mesh together and arch high above their heads, forming a patchy canopy. The plants are frosted white with a hint of magenta underneath. Stringy moss sways from the highest branches.

Although it would be a prettier sight if Mimi wasn’t munching on the remains of Isaac’s severed arm. Isaac and Stiles share a moment of queasiness and even huddle together as they turn away. Boyd looks at them like he doesn’t get what their problem is.

He wasn’t kidding when he said she was a giant. She’s like one of the Navi people from Avatar except pale green and less catlike; she’s tall, at least nine feet, and lithe, narrow-hipped and flat chested. Thick, white dreadlocks drape over her shoulders and brush against her knees. Black, beady eyes sit in sunken eye-sockets. Her tiny nose sniffs at them.

She makes a dismissing sound, something between a scoff and a groan. “There’s nothing good on you. Go away,” she says to Stiles. “You can leave them though.” She indicates Boyd and Isaac with the chewed up arm. “Not that they’re much better.”   

Stiles takes a deep, stabilizing breath and explains why they’re there. In long exhausting detail. He may even go back to the beginning of his little supernatural adventure, back to when Scott was bitten. Just to be irritating, he recounts the first time he met Scott in a sandbox when they were four.

Apparently it’s not so irritating because that catches Mimi’s attention the most.

“You’re good friends,” she says.

Stiles shrugs. “The best. Like family.”

She jerks her pointy chin at his two companions. “What about them?”

“Like I said, we’re working on it.”

“My girlfriend adores him. Anyone Erica likes, I’m okay with,” Boyd adds.

Her eyes snap to Isaac.

“I’m an orphan, I guess.” Isaac looks down at his feet, uncomfortable with this line of conversation. “I don’t have anyone else. Derek takes care of me though. And Scott reminds me of my older brother sometimes. So things are better with them.”

Mimi stares at Stiles and then bursts into a squealing fit of laughter, complete with dropping to her stomach and rolling around in the dirt. “You!” Stiles knows she’s talking to him “You’re more important than the alpha!”

Stiles supposes he is. He’s the link holding two halves of the pack together. It’s not a shocking revelation but he feels strange now that it’s been pointed out.

She stops to sprawl across the ground on her stomach and digs her chin into the dirt, looking up at them. “Fine. I’ll wait. I didn’t want to move anyway.” She heaves a gusty sigh. No really. Their clothes and hair flutter from it. “I miss the Hales.” Her voice is wistful, sad. Stiles’ heart goes out to her. Suddenly, her demeanor shifts into something hard. The muscles in her back go rigid and her lips pull back, revealing rows of sharp daggers. “Go away now. I don’t want you here anymore.”

They don’t need to be told twice.

They return to Stiles’ jeep. He’s feeling pretty triumphant that they secured peace with a homicidal faerie and weren’t torn limb from limb in the process. Boyd seems to share this sentiment if the small smile on his face is anything to go by. But then Stiles sees Isaac’s sullen face in his rearview mirror.

“What’s up with you?”

Isaac’s eyes meet his through the mirror. He makes a sarcastic wave with his amputated arm. Okay, there is that.

“Isaac doesn’t like it when people point out that we’re the weakest links in the pack,” Boyd says. He’s looking at Isaac through the rearview mirror now too.

Isaac grinds his teeth, eyes flashing. “It’s not that I’m horrible at it. Being a werewolf that is. I mean, I was the first to find an anchor.” He laughs. “Well, next to Scott who’s pretty much better at everything, according to Derek.” He says this lightly, as if that does anything to cover up his envy.

“I thought you said Scott reminded you of your brother?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah. Well, that’s one of the ways he does. He never got.” Isaac’s face goes blank so quickly and easily, he must’ve perfected that skill with a lot of practice. “He never got what I got. Dad was always prouder of him.”

What’s Stiles supposed to say to that? He can’t imagine—if his dad did those things to him—well, he just couldn’t imagine it. How fucked up he’d be.

Stiles thinks that’s the last he’ll hear Isaac talk for awhile but then he says, “Derek always says I’m too ‘cautious.’ It drives me fucking crazy.”  

Stiles keeps his eyes firmly on the road. He won’t look at Isaac as he says this. He’s starting to get that eye contact spooks him when paired with serious conversation. “I don’t think he means that the way you think he does. You’ve got more reservations than anyone, except for probably Derek and Peter. No one blames you for that, dude. Least of all Derek. ”

“Yeah,” Boyd joins in. “And we’re not the weakest links in the pack, man. Look at Stiles. He was perfect for the thing with the faerie because he’s completely powerless.”

Stiles laughs. “Thanks. Thanks a lot. Don’t forget who’s driving here. I will crash this car on your side.”

Isaac is slightly more cheerful at least. “You know, you defend Derek _a lot_.”

“He does,” Boyd agrees.

Stiles frowns. “I really don’t.” If only they heard the last argument he had with Derek. Well, the big one.

Boyd snorts and Isaac says “okay” with far too much sarcasm for Stiles’ liking.

“I don’t,” he repeats. “I’m crashing the car now. I don’t care if you’re on opposite sides. I’ll find a way.”

 

 

VII.

 

The next pack meet is at Derek’s apartment.

Erica suggested they all stay in and watch a movie to celebrate the whole “nobody died” thing. Stiles was all for not being left alone with creepy I’m-going-to-look-at-you-like-I’m-analyzing-you-but-I’m-not-really-I-just-do-it-to-make-you-squirm Peter for five long hours. Boyd sided with Erica and Scott sided with Stiles. Peter didn’t care; he was going to work on the bestiary regardless of where they were. Derek was already outnumbered at that point so Isaac decided to join the bandwagon. Jackson, not one to go against the popular decision, silently agreed. Derek had looked at them all like this was mutiny and they were making him walk the plank. Then he said he’d stock up on popcorn.

To say it’s cramped is an understatement. Peter flees to one of the bedrooms, saying something about being too old to be in such close contact with so many noisy kids, which leaves seven people. Six werewolves and one human. And one couch.

“I say the victors, me, Isaac, and Boyd, get the couch.” Stiles plops down on it without any intention of moving. Isaac cautiously takes a seat beside him. Boyd looks like he doesn’t care. He just wants to sit with Erica but she’s having none of that. Because she’s devious, she plays along with Stiles’ little game of let’s annoy our alpha and makes Boyd take the couch.

“I say fine, as long as there’s room for the host,” Derek says. There isn’t enough room for four people. Derek knows this so he’s just being a jackass.

“I say that’s a very ungracious host. He should be rewarding his one-armed puppy, stoic-zen puppy, and defenseless homo-sapien for a job well done.”

 “I say.” Derek growls. “Oh fuck it, Stiles, make room or get up.”

“Why do I have to get up? The other two are willing to move.”

“Exactly. You’re not, which is why I’m making you.”

“Jesus, what’s so bad about the floor? It’s not like your ass will go numb with your werewolf—”

“Stiles! I’m not going to sit on the floor in my own fucking home.”

Stiles scoots over as much as he can. The others do the same just to try and put some distance between each other. All together they might create enough room for one butt cheek. Truthfully, Stiles doesn’t know why he’s being so obstinate. Probably because Derek is just as stubborn. And Stiles is never one to let him get his way just because he demands it.

Derek regards him for a moment, before smiling one of his subtle, vengeful smiles. Well, “smile” is a strong word. It’s more like a show of teeth. Derek wedges his body into the tiny space by laying his legs across the three of them.

“Oh my God, you weigh a ton,” Stiles wheezes. “You’re such a child.” His face is heating up. That shouldn’t be happening.

Derek laughs sharply. “Oh no, you do not get to say that to me.”

“I’m putting the movie on!” Erica sings. Scott and Jackson look vaguely uncomfortable.

“You know, if your plan is to make me move, that makes it hard to do when you’re _sitting on top of me_.”

Derek glances back at him. “Are you planning to get up?”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “I’ll never surrender.”

Derek shrugs and turns his head toward the TV screen. His arms take up the whole armrest behind him, leaving Stiles with nowhere appropriate to put his damn hands. He awkwardly rearranges them about every minute.

The heat from Derek’s legs seeps into Stiles’ jeans, into his _skin_ , and he really shouldn’t enjoy that as much as he does. His pulse is quick, not quite pounding but noticeably irregular. If anyone hears a difference, they don’t say anything. He could rely on Jackson to make fun of him for it, and if he wasn’t saying anything, well, that was good. Right?

Boyd, for whatever reason, gets up and sits beside Erica at the base of the couch. Derek rolls off of Stiles and Isaac to take the vacated space.

Stiles has a hard time concentrating on the movie for the rest of the night.

 


End file.
